The dream began as a whisper. A cold, insidious thought that coiled in the depths of Link's training-induced exhaustion. He was standing on the ridge overlooking Ordon Valley, but the sky was a sickly, bruised purple, and the air was thick with the cloying, sweet scent of decay he remembered from the Umbral Court.
Then came the screams.
He was a ghost, a helpless, spectral observer as his home was unmade. He saw them, the creatures from his deepest nightmares. A tall, elegant demon with eyes like dying embers stood on the hill where he had once played, directing the chaos with a lazy, bored grace. Around him writhed beautiful, terrible women with hypnotic eyes, their laughter like the shattering of glass as they moved through the village, their very presence seeming to drain the color and life from the world.
He saw the villagers, his friends, his neighbors, fighting with a desperate, futile courage. He saw Fado, the rancher, trying to defend his goats, only to be swarmed by shadowy, hound-like beasts that tore not at his flesh, but at his spirit. He heard Ilia's terrified cry cut short. He saw the baker's shop, a place of warmth and comfort, consumed by cold, violet spite-flames that fed on the very stone.
His vision was pulled, against his will, to his own home. He saw his father, Rohm, standing before the forge, a great war hammer in his hands, his face a mask of defiant, paternal rage. He was a mountain of a man, an unbreakable will against an unstoppable tide. But for every shadow-beast he crushed, two more took its place. He saw them overwhelm him, drag him down, his final, defiant roar silenced.
And then, the most terrible sight of all. He saw his mother, Elara, standing on the doorstep of their home, armed with nothing but a kitchen knife and a mother's boundless love. He saw the elegant demon, Asmodeus, approach her, a look of artistic appreciation on his cruel face. He saw her lunge, a final, hopeless act of defiance. He saw the demon raise a hand, and he saw his mother, his gentle, loving mother, consumed by a wave of pure shadow, her form dissolving into nothingness without a sound.
The vision shattered.
Link jolted awake with a silent, ragged scream that tore at his throat, his body drenched in a deathly cold sweat. He was in the dark, hot forge, the familiar smell of coal and steel a horrifying contrast to the nightmare. But it had not felt like a dream. It felt like a memory of the future. It felt like a prophecy.
No.
The thought was a physical blow. A frantic, primal terror, hotter and more powerful than any forge, seized him. He scrambled to his feet, his movements clumsy, his disciplined grace gone, replaced by the panicked haste of a terrified child. His gear. He needed his gear. He grabbed his sword, his hands fumbling with the scabbard. He strapped on his shields, his fingers clumsy on the buckles.
Home. He had to go home. He had to stop it. He had to be there. He turned and ran for the forge's entrance, his mind a white-hot storm of grief and fear.
A mountain blocked his path. Korgon stood in the entrance, his massive form filling the entire space, an immovable wall of stone and shadow against the moonlit sky. He had been woken by the boy's sudden explosion of panicked energy.
Link tried to push past him, a futile gesture, like a moth trying to move a boulder. He looked up at the Goron, his face a mess of unshed tears, his eyes wild with terror. He pointed desperately to the west, towards the distant, unseen home that was burning in his mind. Let me pass! I have to go!
Korgon's fiery eyes softened for a fraction of a second, not with pity, but with a deep, grim understanding. He placed a hand the size of a millstone on Link's shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.
"Breathe, boy," his voice rumbled, the sound a low, calming tremor. "Breathe. And tell me what you saw."
Link couldn't speak, but his terror was a language Korgon could understand. He conveyed the vision through the frantic gestures of his hands—a village, a fire, a great shadow, the faces of his parents, and then… nothing.
Korgon listened, his stony face growing harder, grimmer. "A vision," he grunted when Link was done. "The shadow has shown its hand. It wants to break your spirit by destroying your anchor." He looked down at the boy, whose entire body was trembling with the desperate urge to run. "And you want to run right into its trap."
Link shook his head vehemently, pointing west again. I can save them!
"No!" Korgon's voice was a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. "You run back there now, half-trained and with a heart full of terror and rage, and you will die. A pointless, stupid death. And they will still die." He knelt, forcing Link to meet his intense, fiery gaze. "Listen to me. The Great Deku Tree's vision was not about one village! It was about all of Hyrule! You are the only weapon this world has against the Great Silence. To throw your life away in a single, hopeless battle now is to sacrifice the entire war to save one battlefield! It is the act of a panicked child, not the hero you are meant to be!"
The Goron's words were a bucket of ice water, but Link's panic was too hot, his grief too sharp. He tore himself from Korgon's grasp. He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger, not west, but south, towards the jagged, moonlit peak of the Needle. And then, he pointed to the mountain beyond it, the place Korgon had told him the Master Sword slept.
His unspoken demand was a desperate, final scream. Then let me take the sword! Now! With it, I can save them!
For a moment, Korgon looked stunned. Then his expression turned to one of absolute, terrifying seriousness. "You fool," he whispered, the sound more menacing than his roar had been. "You think the Master Sword is a simple tool? A weapon to be picked up and used? It is a judge, boy. A mirror for the soul. It drinks the spirit of its wielder."
He loomed over Link, his shadow extinguishing the moonlight. "You want to draw it now? With a heart full of fear, a mind full of rage, and a spirit splintered by a shattered vision? It will taste your desperation. It will taste your haste. It will find you unworthy. And its sacred power, the very light you seek to command, will turn on you. It will not just hurt you. It will burn your very soul to ash."
Link stumbled back, the finality in the Goron's voice extinguishing his last, desperate hope. He was trapped. He could not go home. He could not take the sword. His family, his friends, his entire world, were going to be destroyed, and he was powerless to stop it. He fell to his knees, the sword slipping from his numb fingers, and a single, silent tear, the first he had shed since leaving home, cut a clean path through the grime on his cheek.
Korgon watched the boy's spirit break. He let the silence hang for a long moment, then let out a long, slow breath. "But a vision is a warning, boy," he said, his voice now a low, intense rumble, devoid of anger. "Not a certainty. The shadow has shown its hand. And that gives us a sliver of time."
He reached down and hauled Link to his feet, forcing the sword back into his hand. "So you will not run. You will not hide. You will prepare."
He looked at Link, his fiery eyes blazing with a new, insane plan. "Your training is no longer a matter of seasons. It is a matter of days. You will eat the blade, you will sleep the blade, you will breathe the blade. I will hammer you and break you and reforge you until your will is as hard as the steel in your hand."
He pointed to the Needle, its peak a sharp fang against the stars. "Then, and only then, you will face the trial of the mountain. And after that, the judgment of the sword. If you are worthy, you will have a weapon to save them. If not..." He did not finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Link looked up, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the forge's glow. The frantic panic in his eyes was gone, burned away by the terrible heat of his master's words. It was replaced by something colder, harder, and more terrifyingly focused than Korgon had ever seen. It was the look of a boy who had just been handed an impossible choice: become a legend in a matter of days, or watch his world burn.
"Now," Korgon growled, "pick up your hammer. The dawn is coming."